


Prizefighter

by Cowboy_Sneep_Dip



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Basilio Accidentally Adopts A Son, Blood and Violence, Boycina, F/F, Gender Identity, Genderfluid Character, Hurt/Comfort, I'm not sure the proper tag for 'gender fuckery' but like, Love Triangles, Pronoun Switching, Rivals to Lovers, anti-plegian sentiment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:41:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22553452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cowboy_Sneep_Dip/pseuds/Cowboy_Sneep_Dip
Summary: A stranger comes to Regna Ferox, a cloth-wrapped sword on her back and a fire in her heart. At the brink of exhaustion and starvation, she is given a choice - fight for the Khan hopeful in the arena or freeze in the harsh Feroxi winter.And so, Lucina becomes Marth: a haircut and a wardrobe change later, the enigmatic traveler is thrust into a world of stage-peril, rivalries, intrigue, and theatrics. Her aim - to win the tournament, best her cocky rival, and perhaps catch the eye of the visiting dignitary with scarlet hair and a razor wit.
Relationships: Degel | Kjelle/Lucina, Degel | Kjelle/Lucina/Serena | Severa, Lucina/Serena | Severa
Comments: 14
Kudos: 33





	1. Prologue: Strange Land

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't really canon-compliant, so much as "grabbing fistsfuls of relevant canon and stapling them together", so uh. Don't expect that I guess jhdfdf
> 
> This one's a little lighter on the angst and a little more leaning towards action and romance! I hope ya'll enjoy!

A stranger arrives in Regna Ferox.

She’s slight, shivering, her arms wrapped around her tatters of blue clothes, head bowed and feet slow to make tracks in the thick snow that blankets the road. She’s dressed not for the cold, but for the desert - her clothes serve double-duty here, with the cloth scarf wrapped around her keep the sand from her lungs working just as well to keep her face warm. She’s wearing goggles over her eyes, a glass mask rimmed in wrought metal, initially to keep the stinging sand from her eyes, now just as good for the snow.

She stumbles and falls, collapsing into the heavy snow, her hands sinking into the white. The snow seeps through the seams in her clothes, moth-eaten holes and windswept tatters, and it’s cold and wet against her skin. She coughs and tugs her facemask down to spit red into the snow. The coughing doesn’t stop for several minutes.

The sun is setting behind the city walls, and the temperature is dropping. 

She pushes herself up, breathing hard, and stumbles down the road. No one else passes her. No one else is outside the city walls, away from the light and warmth. She rests against a tree, one arm out to support herself, and she watches the guards at the gate.

There’s no doubt that they’re Feroxi - hard grey iron armor and thick steel swords and worn faces, but smiles as they chat and laugh. It’s easy to guard a city in a country where the land does most of the work for you.

The Feroxi people are a hard people - not unfriendly, usually, but intimidating to outsiders. The girl who stumbles through the snow up to the gate is an outsider. 

“Halt!” one of the guards says, frowning and turning to look at the girl.

She stares up at him, almost a foot difference between their heights. She’s short for her age, emaciated and trembling. She looks as if a stiff breeze would be her undoing.

“What business have you in the East-Capitol?” asks the other guard.

“P-please,” the girl stammers, her voice hoarse and cracking. To say her Ylissean needs work is an understatement. The mask and scarf cannot hide her Plegian accent. “I just need somewhere to s-stay.”

The guards look at each other.

“How old are you, kid?” 

“N-nineteen.”

“Ha! And I’m the King of Valm. What are you doing by yourself?” 

“I’m a t-traveler,” she says. Her voice is low, weak. “Please, I j-just need somewhere to stay.”

The guards look at each other furtively. 

The girl bows her head and tries to stifle a cough. She presses a hand to her chest. 

“Go on, then,” the first guard gestures towards the city gate. “Don’t make trouble, or it’ll be us on your arse, you hear me?” 

“Thank you, sir,” the girl nods, limping past him.

“Oy! Boy!” the second guard calls after her.

_Boy?_ she thinks. She turns and lifts her goggles to her forehead. 

“You dropped your steel.” The guard holds out a cloth-wrapped sword, it’s hilt protruding from the bottom. 

The girl takes the sword and mutters a quick thank you before crossing through the gate. She clutches the wrapped sword to her chest and stares at the city that spreads out before her.

-

The East-Capitol is a monstrosity of a city by any accounts, a twisting maze of stone and rock carved into the mountainside, concentric half-circle walls bounding each of the many wards of the city. The lowest houses the slums, the markets, the poorhouses and dingy taverns and men with hungry eyes and quick fingers. 

Lucina has never seen anything like it in her entire life.

She comes from the desert, a land of emptiness and sand even before the war, before the fires and the shattered temples and the bodies in the streets. A hard and empty land. 

And now she has come to the East-Capitol, a city thriving in its neutrality. The politics of Ferox are beyond Lucina’s grasp, and she does not understand why the country remains neutral as its neighbors destroy each other, but she’s old enough to know that war has no rationale, no sense. 

In truth, the internal power struggle between the East and West Khans are what keeps Ferox neutral. For now, the East is the seat of power, and the East is where the merchants and traders and travelers flock. Where the Khan goes, the money flows.

Lucina clutches her sword to her chest and sidles between the throngs of people, her wild eyes darting at everything around her. The sights, the sounds, the smells. Life, everywhere, even among the snow and dead trees and walls of stone. 

Warm torches set into shop fronts, streetlights humming with magic, warmth simply from the sheer density of packed people. 

Lucina’s stomach gurgles and her mouth waters at the smell of food wafting from street stalls. Two children run past her, laughing and darting through the crowd, sending her sprawling back into a man. He shoves her forward. “Lay off,” he mutters, pushing her.

She steadies herself at the corner of an alley and rests against a stone building, breathing hard. The enticing illusion of food has faded from her and she feels nauseous and weak, her stomach folding in on itself as acid eats at the emptiness. She swallows hard and rests her forehead against the cold stone. How long has it been? Two days? Three? 

A week?

She slings her wrapped sword over her shoulder before wrapping her arms around herself.

_Think. Think_. 

She had a plan when she left. It fell apart before she even crossed the border. Now the planned seemed simpler - shelter, water, food, warmth. She pushes her goggles up and pulls her mask down and rubs her cold-flushed face. Blood is crusted at the corners of her chapped lips, and frozen tears in the corners of her eyes. She sighs and steadies her breathing as best she can. Food. 

She’s stolen before, she can steal again. Mask on, goggles on, head down. She does her best to keep a low profile as she weaves between the marketplace, scanning the stalls for anything close to the edge. Anything too close to the shifting throng.

She rolls her fingers and cracks her knuckles, readying herself.

Stealing is a sin, yes. Her father had told her many times when she was very small, when he caught her taking bread from the sacristy. She wobbles to one side, brushing between a bulky soldier and a stall with sizzling strips of meat dangling from skewers. Her fingers dart up, snatching the meat before she darts back into the crowd in a single swift motion. 

She shoves her mask up and eats the whole piece of meat in a single bite, chewing slowly. It’s hot and burns her mouth, but nothing in the world tastes better. Even if it is half fat and oversalted, it’s food, and it’s something to quell the growling of her stomach. Not enough, but a start.

She swallows and circles around, stopping to pretend to peruse a storefront displaying jewelry on ornate wooden mannequins until she’s certain no one saw her theft. She breathes a sigh of relief. A strip of meat isn’t much to go on, but it’s something.

Brimming with confidence and salt on her lips, Lucina steps back onto the market street, passing below paper lanterns strung between buildings. Music comes from somewhere - a lute and a strong, low voice spilling out from a tavern. 

Lucina steps into an open-wall bakery, enticed by the smell of fresh bread. 

Not hard, black bread like the kind the Plegian army carried. No, this is _real_ bread - sweet and light and fluffy, the crusts dusted with salt and cracked to show the soft goodness within. Her mouth is watering just looking at them.

“Oy!” the baker shouts, turning to face her. “You got money?”

Startled, Lucina shakes her head.

“Then get out, ya vagrant,” the baker waves her out. “Go on, get.”

Lucina stumbles back into the street, her stomach growling, feeling hungrier than she felt before. Just a little more food, then she can find an alleyway to rest in until morning, a drainage ditch or an overhang or something. 

She sidles between two soldiers laughing about something and one takes a drunken swipe at the back of her head. She ducks and spins, backing into a heavyset merchant carrying a crate. He stumbles from her impact and drops his crate, barking after her angrily as she ducks down an alleyway. 

Once she’s sure the coast is clear, she grins, rolling back her sleeve and withdrawing a wax-wrapped sausage she swiped during the scuffle. She peels back the paper and grins. 

All those days in the Plegian streets taught her something, it seems. 

Before she can take a bite, a heavy hand grasps hers and tugs it back.

“You thieving little dastard!”

The merchant twists her wrist and Lucina tries to pull back, but she can’t. His grip is too strong for her to wriggle free from, but in the struggle he yanks her scarf, sending her careening to the stone wall and into a snowdrift. 

He holds the tatters of scarf in one hand and scowls down at her.

“Filthy Plegian rat!” he drops the scarf and lashes a heavy boot out. 

Lucina scrambles backwards in the snow, cold and wet seeping into her gloves. Her hair tumbles out of its tight ponytail and cascades down her shoulders in messy tangles.

“A girl?” the man raises his eyebrow.

Lucina pushes herself to her feet and backs away, into the waiting arms of another man, a ragged-looking man with two-day stubble and an odor of strong liquor. He grasps her arm. 

“Plegian girl, eh, boss?” he looks at Lucina. “I say we gut her and leave her for the kin to gnaw on.” 

Lucina grits her teeth and lashes a leg back, hard. She crashes her boot into the man’s knees before turning and landing her own knee directly into his groin. He topples backwards and collapses into the snow.

“Get her!” the merchant shouts, drawing a thin iron sword.

Lucina’s eyes dart around the alleyway, desperate for an escape. The merchant draws closer, blade and teeth bared, and behind her two more men encircle her, men with hollow eyes and sneering grins and sharp knives. 

Lucina takes stock of the alleyway. A few scattered crates and barrels to one side, a big bin full of garbage to the other. A few balconies dusted with snow a couple floors up. She kneels in the snow and reaches back to the cloth-wrapped sword slung over her shoulder.

Falchion gleams gold in the flickering torchlight. 

Her arms ache with the strain and her stomach growls in protest, but the instinct cannot be denied. She lunges forward, blade drawn, and crashes it into the merchant’s iron. The clash of blades flicker in the light. Lucina parries, pushes him back, and braces the blade with her off-hand to bring the heavy hilt crashing against the man’s face. He staggers back, blood streaming from his nose and split lip. 

“Bitch!” he cries.

Lucina ducks and can feel the rush of wind as a knife passes above her head. She spins and drives the blade backwards, the sharp edge passing through one of her assailant’s thin cloaks, drawing a splash of blood against the snow. 

If there is one thing Lucina knows, it is battle. It is blades-drawn blood-pumping fists-clenched fighting. She lunges backwards, parrying an incoming knife and following up with a shoulder against the attacker’s ribcage. She can hear a grunt and a crack of bones. 

She doesn’t want to kill these men. She runs through the scenario in her head, trying to figure out her options. Disabling her attackers and running down the back alley seems her best bet, so she swipes her leg out and sends the angry merchant collapsing into a heap against one wall. She grasps the blade of her sword again and swings it like a club, buckling one of her attackers before using his crumpled back like a springboard. She plants a boot against his spine and leaps onto the scattered crates. 

“Get back here, you filthy little mongrel!” one of the men shouts after her, swinging a sword in haphazard strokes towards her legs. 

She’s too quick, though, and leaps across the alley, over the heads of her attackers, and crashes into the railing of one of the alleyway balconies. She scrambles over the wrought metal railing, balancing on the top on steady feet before leaping again to the next balcony. Another jump and she’s on the rooftops. 

She scrambles up the snow-dusted shingles, her boots beating a rhythmic pattern against the molded clay. She can hear angry shouts behind her, a clamor in the crowd. The sound of angry men climbing scaffolding and balconies in pursuit.

What had those guards said? 

_“Don’t make trouble, or it’ll be us on your arse.”_

She kneels at the apex of a roof to wrap Falchion again before slinging it back over her shoulder. The wrapped blade presses into her back as she runs, jogging down the rooftop and making a running bound across the market street. 

She crashes into the sloped wooden awning on the far side with a crackle of joints and bone. Her vision sparks and she tastes copper as she pushes herself up. 

Her assailants are on the far roof, pointing and shouting at her. 

She grins back at them and salutes. 

The awning collapses beneath her weight, sending her crashing down to the street below. She lands tailbone-first in an open barrel, which breaks into splinters and scatters its contents into the street. 

“You!” comes a shrill, angry voice. 

Lucina scrambles to her feet and sprints away, darting down another alleyway, away from the market, away from the hastily organizing patrol guards and the angry merchant with a broken nose. 

She breathes hard, her muscles burning and her joints aching. The adrenaline drains away as she rounds a corner and collapses against a snowy bush on a quiet street corner. She coughs, pressing a hand to her chest. 

She lays on her back in the snow, staring up at the dark nighttime sky, taking stock. She didn’t get any more food. She lost her scarf and her goggles. Falchion is safe. She’s unhurt - well, mostly unhurt. Her stomach grumbles hungrily and she presses a hand against it. 

Now that the adrenaline is seeping away, the weariness has set in again, she closes her eyes, just for a moment. This is no place to sleep, but to rest...maybe.

“That’s no place to take a nap, now,” comes a stern, low voice.

Lucina blinks awake and sits up, scrambling away from the sound of the voice.

“Rest easy, boy. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

A man crouches over Lucina, scratching his bald head. 

Lucina presses her back against the wall behind her. 

“I said I’m not gonna hurt you,” the man repeats again. He’s wearing an eyepatch and heavy, feathered armor. He holds out one sturdy hand. “My name’s Basilio.”

Lucina stares at his hand until he pulls it back and stands up.

“I saw you in the market,” Basilio explains, resting his hands on his hips. “I mean, the whole street did. That was a fine show you - now, hold on, boy, I’m not going to turn you in.”

Lucina lowers her hand from the sword-hilt on her back and cautiously pushes herself to a standing position. At full height she’s nearly a foot and a half shorter than Basilio, putting her eye-level with his muscular torso. In a head-on fight, he could snap her like a twig, no doubt. 

“I know that look,” Basilio laughs. “Sizing me up, are you?” He rests a hand on her shoulder and she flinches, pulling back. “Trust me, if I wanted to hurt you, I could. But I don’t want to.” 

He purses his lips and looks her up and down.

“Skinny little thing, aren’t you?”

Lucina stares at him through tangled bangs.

“You want some food?” 

Lucina nods.

  
  



	2. Warm Welcome

“Slow down, kid, or you’re going to make yourself sick!” 

Lucina looks up from a half-emptied plate of stir-fried meat and vegetables, reaching out across the table to snag a piece of bread that she stuffs in her mouth and washes down with a draught of ale. 

Basilio sits across from her in a booth, the two of them in a warm corner of some dingy tavern. Candles flicker in brass light fixtures above them. 

Lucina grasps her flagon of ale with both hands, bringing it to her mouth and gulping it down with the intensity of a parched man in the desert. The empty vessel clatters to the table and she reaches across to pick a piece of meat off of Basilio’s own untouched plate. 

“Come on, kid,” Basilio frowns. 

“Sorry,” Lucina mutters through a mouthful of food. She swallows again and pushes an empty plate aside, reaching for a bowl of thick stew. 

“You must really be hungry, huh.”

Lucina nods, shoveling more food into her mouth. She picks up the stew bowl and lifts it to her lips to drink the broth. 

It’s food. It’s so much food. It’s more food than she’s ever had in one place. It’s warm and it’s salty and its rich and its fatty and she reaches for another flagon of ale. Her chapped lips and raw gums rejoice, her growling stomach finally achieving something akin to satisfaction. She belches loudly and Basilio laughs. 

“Alright, kid. Slow down, really,” he smiles at her kindly, though she can barely see his face through the tangled, unkempt hair that hangs down in front of her eyes. Basilio reaches out. “It’s not going anywhere.”

Lucina obeys, setting her fork down but pulling a plate away from Basilio’s outstretched hand. She looks up at him through her lense of matted hair, gasping for breath.

“That’s better. I can buy you more if you want, but I want to talk business first.”

Lucina prods at a wedge of hard cheese and picks it up, taking a bite out of it like an apple. “Busineth?” she asks, wiping her mouth with her sleeve. 

“You’re Plegian, aren’t you?”

Lucina swallows and nods. 

“Thought so. Fresh off the wagon, are you?” 

Lucina nods again and reaches a tenuous hand out for another flagon of ale. Basilio indulges her and pushes it across the table to her.

“Looking for work?” 

“What kind of work?” she asks over the lip of the vessel. 

“Ah, well...I’d assume you aren’t too familiar with Feroxi arena-fighting, are you?” 

She shakes her head.

“Thought not,” Basilio leans back and drapes a muscular arm over the back of the booth. “You see the big building up in the third ward when you came in?” he mimes a shape with his hands. “Big old circular thing?”

Lucina shakes her head. “I just got here.”

“Ah, well. It’s a Feroxi tradition to hold fights there,” Basilio explains. “You know about the Khan champion fights, at least?” 

Lucina shakes her head. 

Basilio puts his face in his hands. “What’s your name, boy?” 

“Marth,” Lucina says through a mouthful of potato. It’s a practiced lie.

“Ha!” Basilio laughs. “Pleased to meet you, I’m Lord Michalis.” 

“It’s my name,” Lucina says flatly. 

“What about your family name?” 

“Lowell.”

“Doesn’t sound Plegian.” 

Lucina picks up a chunk of bread and considers it for a moment. “What do you want?” 

“I’m recruiting fighters,” Basilio says simply. “I saw your little stunt in the marketplace, and I think you’d be a hell of an add.” 

“For the Khan thing?” Lucina asks.

Basilio shakes his head. “The Grand Tournament won’t happen until next spring. In the meantime, the arena puts on shows. It’s good for the morale of the people, helps bring in some coin, and most importantly-” he leans forward. “It’s time to train for the Grand Tournament.” 

Lucina scratches her scalp, digging at tangled hair. “So you do want me to fight for the Khan thing?” 

“Not yet,” Basilio explains. “The shows the arena puts on are still tournament fights, but it’s all stage fighting. Just acting, you know? No real danger, except for bruises and maybe the odd broken bone here and there.” Basilio sighs and leans back again. “You’d get some money, a place to stay, and food.” He raises an eyebrow - the one over his remaining eye. “Winters come hard and fast in Ferox, if you hadn’t noticed.”

Lucina swallows. 

“If you don’t mind me asking, what’s a lad like you doing in Ferox?” 

_ Lad again, _ Lucina thinks. She swallows a bite of bread. “Looking for my father.” 

“Is he here?”

Lucina shakes her head. “I don’t know.” 

The real answer is simpler - she was fleeing the war, like everyone else bleeding through the Plegian borders. Fleeing the Grimleal, fleeing Ylissean steel, fleeing death and disease and the endless, hot desert. 

“Well,” Basilio shrugs. “It’d be money and shelter. You’d meet a lot of folks. Noble folks, too. May be a good change to ask around.”

Lucina drains her drink. “Why me?” 

“To be perfectly honest, I was watching you in that alleyway, even before your stunt on the rooftops,” Basilio laughs heartily. “I’ve only known one other man who fights so recklessly. Who taught you to fight?”

“My father,” Lucina says quietly.

“Ah,” Basilio nods, dropping the subject. “What do you think?” 

“I think-” Lucina gurgles and presses a hand to her stomach. “Uh.”

-

Lucina braces herself against a wall and throws up onto the alley cobblestones. 

“There, there, kid,” Basilio pats her back. “Told you you were going to make yourself sick.”

Lucina coughs and retches again before crumpling to her knees and clutching her stomach. “Gods,” she moans. “Gods, it hurts.”

“How long’s it been since you’ve eaten?” Basilio helps her stand. “If you cram an empty stomach full of food, this is what happens.”

Lucina nods and wipes her mouth with her sleeve. She didn’t know that. She had never had the opportunity. 

“Marth, was it?” Basilio props her up. “How old are you, Marth?”

“Nineteen,” Lucina breathes before spitting into the snow. 

Basilio laughs again, his uproarious laugh that gives Lucina the distinct feeling that she’s being mocked. “Nineteen, are you? You look like you weigh a hundred pounds soaking wet.” He grins conspiratorially at her. “Don’t worry, though, we can fudge the paperwork a bit. Though, for my own peace of mind - how old are you, really?” 

“Nineteen,” Lucina takes a steadying breath and wipes her mouth again. 

Basilio chews his bottom lip and regards the frail youth before him. “I see.” 

Lucina wraps her arms around her slim stomach as the two of them walk through the streets, bound for some unknown destination. Snow flecks her tangles of blue hair and settles like a damp sheen on her clothes. She shivers. 

She knows she’s small, even for her age - malnutrition has a tendency to stunt growth, and what little weight she has is all muscle. Strong enough to wield Falchion with two hands, and that’s all that matters. 

Basilio pats her shoulder. “You okay, kid?” 

Lucina nods.

“So,” he asks, stopping at a street corner. “What do you think about my offer?”

-

“First things first,” Basilio says, pushing open a heavy wooden door and ushering Lucina in from the cold. “We do something about that mess you call hair.” 

Lucina frowns and runs her hand through her hair. She can’t remember the last time she’s had a proper bath, so it’s not quite fair to be offended. 

“To be honest, it makes you look a bit like a girl.”

“Oh,” Lucina says softly.

“Well, come on,” Basilio pushes her lightly, deeper into whatever building they’ve stumbled into. By Lucina’s best guess, it almost seems like the back of a theater - one wall is a heavy red curtain, bathed in shadow, and all around them are scattered crates, barrels, thick coils of rope, machinery whose purpose Lucina can only guess at. There are a few scattered souls walking around, mostly brushing past the odd pair with a curt hello.

“I know just the gal to help out,” Basilio grins, steering Lucina down a back hallway. “Oh, Olivia!”

A door cracks open and a woman’s head appears, framed in coils of silky pink hair. “Basilio!” she beams happily. “You missed the show!” 

“Ah, sorry,” Basilio says sheepishly. “Had some business to attend to.” He pats Lucina on the shoulder. “Got a new fighter for the arena.” 

Lucina looks up at Olivia, and blushes deeply.

Olivia is a gorgeous woman, as gorgeous as any woman Lucina had seen in her entire life. She’s perhaps a few years Lucina’s senior, taller, curvy, and draped in beautiful silk clothing. She smiles and looks at Lucina. “Oh? Part of Basilio’s games, are you?”

Lucina shrugs and Basilio laughs. “The lad calls himself Marth. Don't know his real name, but given the climate, I can understand wanting a fake one.”

Olivia gently brushes Lucina’s bangs out of her face. “And I’m assuming you brought him here for a makeover?” 

“Er, something like that,” Basilio nods.

Olivia smiles brightly. “Okay! Why don’t you take him back to the baths and get him cleaned up, and I’ll change and get my supplies ready.”

Lucina’s face flushes a deep read. “Ah, I don’t think-”

“You can leave your gear in my room,” Olivia says, helping unstrap the sword from Lucina’s back and untying her tattered cape. She fingers the fabric lightly. “This is a beautiful cloak, Marth.” She turns it over and runs her fingers over the deep red lining. She frowns and looks up at Basilio. “It’s velvet-lined.” 

“He’s got quick hands,” Basilio shrugs. “Wouldn’t be surprised if-”

“I’m right here,” Lucina scowls. 

“Right!” Basilio nods, placing hands on Lucina’s shoulders and steering her towards the baths. “Bath first.”

“W-wait, no I-”

“Aw, he’s shy,” Olivia smiles softly. 

Lucina tries to squirm and scramble out of Basilio’s grip but his hands are too strong and her own frail joints and aching stomach do nothing to assist in her struggle. Basilio sighs and picks her up, slinging her over his shoulder while she wriggles. “Come on, lad, you smell like a day-old barfight.” 

It’s hopeless, so she dangles, dead weight with her head towards the ground.

Lucina stares numbly at the Men’s Baths sign on a door swinging behind them.

-

If nothing else, at least the theater’s baths are large and elegant. It seems to have been built more for utilitarian purpose than anything else, a facility meant to accomodate a large number of people washing off fake blood or grease or sweat or whatever else actors accumulate through a night of performances. Basilio deposits Lucina in a changing room, opposite a broad and smudgy mirror.

“Well, go on, and undress,” Basilio nods. “I’ll warm up some water for you.” He disappears around the corner in the direction of the baths, leaving Lucina alone and trembling in front of a row of wooden racks. 

She stares at herself in the mirror, contemplating her next move.

She could make a break for the door, probably, but this is an opportunity that won’t come again. Bathing, food, a warm bed...maybe even new clothes. She pokes a thumb through a hole in the hem of her shirt and grimaces. 

Peeling her shirt off is an act of attrition, prying the mangled threads away from skin made tacky with blood and dirt. Her stomach is a criss-cross of scars over narrow, concave flesh. As she peels her sweater over her ribcage, she can make out the bones through thin, transparent skin. She leaves her shirt in a wet pool of snowmelt and mud on the floor, unsure what else to do with it. 

She still has an undershirt, a tight fabric chest wrap around her slight breasts and under her arms. She slips a finger into the top hem and tugs it away from her skin, frowning at her flat chest. 

Would Basilio notice? Would he care? 

Lucina shakes her head and blushes a deep crimson. It doesn’t matter if he would notice, she’s not going topless in front of a stranger! 

With something akin to resolve she peels her pants off and leaves herself clad in her undergarments only. That’s good enough. She eyes her undershorts with disdain. 

_ I don’t need to fake having a -  _

She shakes her head. No, this is good enough. She leaves her clothes in a pile and takes a deep breath before rounding the corner to the baths. 

Basilio is against one wall. Fortunately -  _ thank the gods _ \- he’s still clothed, kneeling over a stool and filling a bucket with water from a faucet. He looks up as she enters and laughs, shaking his head.

“You don’t have public baths in Plegia, do you?” 

Lucina wraps her arms around her stomach and bows her head. She shakes it slightly. 

“Well, come on, then. Suppose there’s no harm in getting your underthings wet.” 

Following Basilio’s instructions, Lucina sits on a wooden stool in front of him, bracing herself as he tips the bucket of water over her shoulders. “We’ll scrub you clean before you get in the baths proper, alright? Don’t want to be getting all this muck in the pool.” 

Lucina braces herself for the water to be cold, but on the contrary, what pours over her shoulders feels warm and comforting. Not hot and sticky, like the pools of Plegian oases, and not frigid like Ylissean rivers. Warm and gentle, until it comes into contact with open cuts and stings. She winces.

“Ah, sorry,” Basilio says, pulling the bucket back. “It’s from an aquifer under the city, and the minerals can sometimes sting.”

_ Mineral water?  _ Lucina grits her teeth. “It’s okay.”

“Close your eyes while I rinse your hair,” Basilio says, filling the bucket again. Lucina closes her eyes and reaches up to plug her nose as he laves warm water over her matted hair. She shakes her head, sending droplets of dirty water scattering from her in a ring, like a halo of mud. 

“Ha!” Basilio says, pointing. “Look at all that. I’m surprised there was even a boy under all that dirt.”

Mud and red water pool around the stool, washing dried blood and weeks of travel from Lucina’s skin. The water soaks into her underclothes and chills her as it evaporates. 

“Let’s do something about that hair,” Basilio says, picking up a hairbrush he must have grabbed from somewhere. Lucina instinctively ducks forward when his hand rests on the top of her head. “Easy, boy, I’m not going to hurt you.” He combs his fingers through her hair. “Er, it might hurt a bit. Let me know if I’m pulling too hard.”

He kneels behind her and runs the hairbrush through her hair, trying to smooth out the knots and tangles. Lucina winces when the brush snags a knot. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Basilio mutters. “Gods, this is why I don’t have any hair.” He sets the brush down and picks up a small flask of something. “Olivia lent me this,” he explained, pouring some into his hand. “Supposed to clean some of the grease out and make your hair easier to comb through, and all that.” He rubs the product into Lucina’s hair and continues the long and arduous process of detangling. 

“Gods above,” he breathes, sitting back. “Maybe it’d be best to chop it all off rather than bother with this.”

Lucina stares at the dirty water pooling on the floor around her. Each rough stroke of the hairbrush pries some hair from her scalp, and that, too, coils underneath her, dead hair and split ends and faded royal blue. 

She leans forward, wrapping her arms around her knees.

Basilio sighs. “You okay, kid?” 

She nods. 

“Right,” Basilio stands up and offers his hand. “I need to go chat with Olivia about some business matters. I’ll bring a change of clothes when I’m done.” He gestures at the bath. “No one should be coming in, so...er…” he rubs the back of his bald scalp. “I suppose you can undress if you want to.” 

Lucina nods again. “Thank you,” she says hoarsely. 

She waits until he disappears from the baths before crying.

-

Lucina tugs at the hem of her shirt.

“Sorry about the sizing,” Olivia says apologetically. “We didn’t really have anything your size, and if we went smaller I’d need to get it from the children’s wardrobe.”

Lucina’s borrowed shirt drapes down, too big for her slender frame. Underneath is a pair of borrowed trousers, thick woolen socks, and worn leather boots. She sits on a wooden stool in front of a mirror in Olivia’s dressing room while she fusses around, pulling things from drawers and wardrobes.

Lucina’s wet hair splays around her shirt, soaking into it. 

“So,” Olivia says, looking up at Basilio, who leans against the corner, arms crossed. “What were we thinking?”

“You’re the expert, Liv,” Basilio shrugs. “Make him look less like a colony of rats settled on his head.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Olivia says, picking up a comb and running it through Lucina’s hair. “He’s just grumpy because it’s past his bedtime.” 

Lucina snorts at that and Olivia smiles. 

“You know, your hair is a really beautiful color,” Olivia says, brushing back Lucina’s hair and picking up a pair of scissors. “A shame we’ve got to cut all the knots out.” 

Lucina sits patiently while Olivia gets to work with the scissors, snipping away her split ends and her tangles of hair. Deep blue locks pile up around her as Olivia does her magic, cutting down and cutting down while Lucina stares at herself in the mirror and watches the transformation happen in real time.

Olivia tilts her head back and checks her bangs, snipping them back and brushing any loose hair out. “Okay,” she says, walking around Lucina and combing out Lucina’s fringe with her hands. “I’m just going to neaten up the back, and then you’ll be all set!” 

Olivia cuts the back of her hair and goads it inwards into a short bob cut, leaving her bangs down to frame her face. She crouches behind Lucina to look over her shoulder into the mirror. 

“There!” Olivia beams. “Handsome as your namesake, if I do say so myself.”

Without the mask of greasy bangs, Lucina can see her face properly - her red-rimmed eyes and gaunt cheeks and chapped lips. 

“Naga above, woman!” Basilio cries. “I told you to make him look  _ more _ manly!” 

“It’s an androgynous style,” Olivia stands up and sets her scissors down. “Besides, all the girls love a pretty heartthrob.”

“Pretty heartthrob my arse,” Basilio stands over Lucina with his arms crossed. 

“Trust me,” Olivia rests a hand on Lucina’s shoulder. “Our last performance of  _ Two Nights in Daein _ , all the ladies were in love with the leading man.” She brushes her fingers through Lucina’s hair, preening pridefully. “The girls will go wild for this one.”

“It’s not about the girls going wild,” Basilio sighs and rubs his temples. “Well, what do you think, boy? Can you fight with hair like that?” 

Lucina stands up and tests it, shaking her head, bowing her head. The bangs don’t hang in front of her eyes, and the short cut doesn’t catch in her clothes. “I think it looks good,” she says at last.

“See! Another satisfied customer,” Olivia beams. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Basilio says, putting his hands on Lucina’s shoulders. “We’ve got your paperwork to sign right in the office,” he steers her towards the door. “Don’t get too full of yourself just because she said you’re handsome.” 

His words bounce off of Lucina’s ears without sinking in. She’s too busy staring at her strange clothes and touching her short hair as they walk. 

-

“Here’s the contract,” Basilio says, holding out a piece of parchment. “Read over it and sign on the line at the bottom.” He frowns. “Your real name, if you please. Marth is fine for a stage name” 

Lucina takes the paper and holds it out like it might bite her. 

“Well, go on, kid, read it.” 

“I, uh-”

“Gods above, they don’t teach you to read in Plegia?” 

The war had come before she had started schooling. Lucina bows her head in embarrassment. “I’m sorry.”

Basilio sighs and takes the paper back. “Right, it’s just the terms of your contract. You’ll get space reserved in the arena dormitories and a modest stipend in exchange for participation in the fights. Sound good?”

Lucina shrugs. She’s fought for food and shelter before, so what’s the difference between that and this? Other than probably not dying, she considers, picking up a quill that Basilio offers. 

She holds the pen over the parchment and stares at the rows and rows of meaningless black characters before her. At the bottom, as promised, a thick black line.

“Just sign with an X,” Basilio says at last. “Gods know half the arena fighters do anyways.” 

Lucina drags the pen across the paper with slow, deliberate strokes. The ink is thick and wet and pools where she lets the pen stop. Something in her chest pulses with electric excitement, a thrill she can’t name. The promise of food and bedding, the warmth of the torchlight and the feeling of her damp hair, new clothes without holes or gashes or bloodstains...it’s a new life. 

Basilio laughs and claps her on the shoulder. “Welcome to the crew, Marth.”

Marth Lowell stares at the ink drying on parchment.


	3. Headfirst Into Trouble

Lucina had been preparing for this since she had taken up the blade and mantle. She - no, not anymore. He had known ever since he chose the name and took his father’s sword. The given name meant nothing, now. No one knew it but him anyways. ‘Lucina’ ceases to exist. 

He could feel the weight of Falchion digging into his shoulder as he walked slowly behind Basilio, saying nothing. It hadn’t felt real until now, until he realized how quick it can be to fall down a path without return.

Basilio would understand, right? If he owned up to it. If he admitted the truth.

_ But I’m a girl! _

Basilio leads him through the city streets, away from the dim theater and past streetlights gone out for the night. The winter air is cold on the back of his neck, on skin that’s been covered with hair and cloaks for so long. He reaches up and rubs the base of his skull, wincing.

“You okay, kid?” Basilio asks.

“Yeah,” Lucina replies, unsure if it’s the truth. He purses his lips. “Where are we going?” 

“The arena dormitories,” Basilio explains, his boots heavy in the snow. “All of the fighters stay in the same bunkrooms, regardless of who they fight for.”

“Bunkrooms?”

“Mm,” Basilio nods. “We’ll see where the quartermaster can fit you in.”

“Where do you stay?” Lucina asks.

Basilio laughs. “Oh, I have my own place to stay,” he says, resting a hand on Lucina’s shoulder. “Don’t you worry about me. Here, the dormitories are just up here.” 

Lucina follows his pointing hand. Beyond their street rises a massive stone building, circular and towering over the surrounding buildings. The building is lined with ornate stonework windows and thick, sturdy columns. Carved reliefs wrap around it, giving the whole building an impression of weighty history and significance. 

Lucina had never seen anything like it. In Plegia, the most prominent buildings were the Grimleal temples, towers of black stone and twisting metal, lit with glowing violet lamps casting sharp shadows across its surface. But this is something else entirely - a monument, to be sure, but a monument to  _ what _ ? 

Basilio grins and slaps him on the back. “Yep, that’s the arena. You can see why I’m surprised you hadn’t seen it on your way into the city.”

“It’s huge…” Lucina breathes. 

“Wait till you see it on a fight night,” Basilio nods. “It’s a sight to behold.

The arena is bathed in darkness, a stone structure that blots out the stars above. Basilio leads them closer, under the shadow of the arena, past narrow clusters of stone rowhouses and ramshackle huts, past snowy yards fenced in with painted wooden boards. 

“The dormitories are just up around this corner, he explains. “Bg brick building, can’t miss it. The lobby torches should still be lit, but if not, I’m sure someone will be there to help you.”

“Aren’t you coming with me?” Lucina asks.

“Oh, no, I’m sorry but it’s late and I’ve got some work to do before bed,” Basilio says, stepping back. “I’ll check in with you again tomorrow, kid.” He smiles and offers a half-tilted nod. “I’m excited to see what you can do, Marth.”

“Th-thanks,” Lucina says, his hoarse voice snatched by the wind. And Basilio is gone, leaving Lucina alone on a snowy, empty street corner.

Wind cuts down the street, blowing past him and ruffling his hair. He wraps his arms around his stomach and bows his head. 

He hadn’t come to Regna Ferox with a plan. By the time he crossed the border he was already hungry and weak and scared, and now this - whatever this is. 

He takes a deep breath. 

No more Basilio is fine. Worst case scenario, he sleeps in an alleyway - he’s slept in worse. He shoulders his cloth-wrapped sword and treks down the road in the direction Basilio had pointed him.

He had been right - it’s hard to miss the dormitories. It’s a broad stone building with dozens of windows set into its side, some lit with candles and torches beyond, some dark. A few stray people hang around the front of the building, sitting on benches, polishing knives. Lucina walks past two men who shoot him a dirty look. 

“This the fighter’s dorm?” 

One of the men nods and points a thumb over his shoulder. “Registration’s through there.” 

“Thanks,” Lucina trudges past him.

“You Basilio’s new pet?” 

Lucina turns and nods. “Yeah, I…I guess.” 

“Ha!” the other man, the one who hadn’t given her help, snorts. “Try not to die.”

“Is that what happened to Samson?” the first man frowns. 

“Broke both his legs,” the second shrugs. “Rumor has it, Basilio’s vying for the Khanship,” he looks up at Lucina. “Better watch your step, boy.”

“Yeah,” Lucina frowns. “Thanks.”

With the ominously vague message ringing in his ears, Lucina trudges up the stone steps and into the lobby of the dormitories. He pushes open the heavy front door and finds himself standing in a common room of sorts, a broad space with a scattering of tables and chairs, an extinguished fireplace in one corner, and a front desk, where a bored-looking woman reads a book by candlelight. She shuts the book and looks up. 

“Can I help you?”

Lucina shifts Falchion’s weight on his shoulder and smile weakly. “Uh, I’m...Basilio told me to come here?”

“Ah, yes. I heard you might be coming,” the woman sits up and roots around behind the reception desk. “What’s your name, boy?” 

“Marth.” 

“Mm,” the woman says, unconvinced as she pulls a thick book with yellowing pages from the desk. She sits it down with a dull thud and flips through the pages slowly. 

Lucina shifts his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other. It’s silent in the lobby, absent all but the sound of rustling paper and the woman’s occasional irritated exhale. Lucina looks around. Cracked tile floor, dusty furniture, windows with mildew stains in the corner. An old building, then. One of the men from outside comes in, offers a curt wave to the receptionist, and recedes into the darkness up a staircase. 

Lucina forces a weak smile. “Um-”

“Sign here,” the woman cuts her off brusquely and spins the book around. It’s a logbook of sorts, the pages stained with ink and crammed to the edge of the margins with notes. Boxes filled with letters. Lucina looks on in fear.

“You’re Basilio’s man?” 

He nods.

The receptionist presses the tip of a pen to one of the empty boxes. “His name, your name. You’ll be in the basement bunkroom.”

Lucina takes the pen nervously and scratches an  _ X _ in one box. “I, um-”

The receptionist sighs and takes the book back. “Downstairs. Long hallway, past the washroom. If you hit the laundry cellar you’ve gone too far.”

Lucina nods and thanks the woman, knowing full well his words fall on deaf ears. He treks past the desk and towards the staircase, descending down past flickering candles set into alcoves in the wall. The staircase curls downwards, a descending spiral into darkness, into an abyss that smells like dust and woodrot.

Lucina inhales deeply and steps down the narrow, dim hallway. 

_ Huh.  _ It’s warm. 

He walks past the staircase landing to a wall and presses his hand against a rusted iron pipe. “Ow!” he winces, pulling his hand back and shaking it out. The pipes are hot. Water, maybe? 

The hallway is long and the stones are slick, seeming to sweat under his feet as he walks. The pipes come and go, sometimes on the ceiling, sometimes disappearing into the stonework, tucked behind wooden fixtures, sometimes snaking through open doors into darkness. He’s sweating by the time he reaches the washroom, which he can’t identify based on the hand-scrawled sign. 

The bunkroom is a large, almost cavernous space, lined with several rows of wooden bunkbeds and threadbare cots. Most of the beds are occupied by other young men, muscular men in sleeveless tunics or cotton nightshirts, some shirtless, most asleep. Some cough periodically, some roll in their bunks restlessly. A few are still up, reading or writing by candlelight. In the upper corner of the room, a high, narrow window lets in a shaft of bluish moonlight and the only wafting fresh air.

One near the door pushes himself up on his elbow. “You just gonna stand there?” 

“Oh,” Lucina mutters, slipping through the doorway. “Sorry.”

The one who had spoken to him rolls over to face the stone wall.

The room is impossibly uncomfortable, humid and sticky and smelling overwhelmingly of mold and - Lucina can’t put a name to it other than the scent of  _ boy _ . He had lived with boys, here and there. In one of the Grimleal priories, in a refugee camp. It’s unmistakable. 

Someone brushes roughly past him, smacking his shoulder with their arm as they pass. Lucina winces instinctively, reaching for his sword. Before he can grasp the hilt and pull it from its cloth wrapping, a hoarse laugh comes from somewhere in the dark bunkroom. 

“Save it for the training yard.” 

Lucina clears his throat. “Do I-”

“Just pick a bed, Naga above,” comes a groan. “Some of us are trying to sleep.”

“Sorry!” Lucina says hastily, followed by a quieter “Sorry…” 

He treks past the rows of bunks until he finds one that seems unoccupied. A hard cot, a thin linen sheet, a pillow that seems mostly unstained. He unshoulders his sword and lays it down between himself and the wall before climbing into bed.

The beds are uncomfortable, but to Lucina, it’s like laying on a cloud. How long has it been since he slept in a bed? A week? Two? A month? He closes his eyes and sighs contentedly. A bath, dinner, and a real bed. Luxuries that had been beyond his grasp for so long. Since he was a child, at least.

He stares up at the wooden slats supporting the bunk above his and rests his hands behind his head, feeling the short silky waves of his new haircut. 

-

Lucina wakes to a heavy boot against the side of her chest. She scrambles awake, trying to pull fragments of her brain together. 

A bunkroom. Boys. Angry eyes staring at her. No. Marth. Marth Lowell. 

Instinct takes over before the attacker can land another blow. Lucina launches himself out of bed and throws an elbow into the attacker’s face. 

“Get out of my bed!” the attacker spits, his face visible in the lamplight. 

“Your bed?!” Lucina shouts, stepping back and lifting his fists defensively. 

The other man darts forward - in the half-light Lucina can tell he’s not much older than himself. He grasps Lucina and pulls her into a headlock, cracking his neck painfully. He cries out and lifts his feet to kick off the opposing bunk, launching both of them back and smashing his attacker’s back into the upper bedframe.

He curses and lets go, dropping Lucina to the floor. 

Lucina gasps for breath and wipes his mouth with his arm. His eyes flit from the attacker to Falchion, still cloth-wrapped in her bed.

Too close-quarters for a sword, he decides. Besides, this asshole probably doesn’t deserve getting gutted.

“You Plegian mongrel!” 

_ Okay, maybe he deserves getting gutted a little. _

Before he can grab the sword, someone else snags his arms and hauls him back, slamming him into a bedpost. 

Half the bunkroom is up at this point, angry about the ruckus, most of them directing their anger towards the new intruder with no sense for manners or privacy. Lucina scrambles to his feet and wipes a smear of blood from the corner of his mouth. His head pulses with pain and it’s hard to differentiate moving limbs between the different bodies scrambling around the crowded bunkroom. Someone snags Lucina’s hair and drags him back before a foot lands on his chest with a heavy thump. 

Lucina curls up on the floor. 

“Stupid dog!” spits one of the men, the one who had kicked him.

Lucina clenches his teeth.  _ Think. Think. _

He lashes one foot out, connecting with the ankle of the man trying to kick him before pushing himself up and headbutting his nose as he stumbles. A sickening crunch and a flow of blood and then Lucina is up again, fists raised. He steps forward, dodges then lands a glancing blow on someone, though it doesn’t seem to matter who at this point. He can taste blood and feel something wet on his shirt. 

Finally he breaks through, pushing close enough to the bed to reach Falchion. He grasps the hilt and swings the blade around in a heavy, clumsy arc, crashing against someone’s chest with a crunch of bone. Lucina pushes it forward, pinning the man to one of the bunkbeds with the flat side of the blade and tilting it upwards, the sharp edge of metal inches from the man’s neck.

“Enough!” barks a harsh voice. Not low or booming, but commanding enough in volume and presence to make everyone in the bunkroom freeze. 

Lucina keeps his sword against the man who had been threatening her, though everyone else eases off, shuffling out of the way.

A man shoulders past, into the aisle, with slick black hair that clings to the back of his head and frames his angular face. He narrows his eyes. 

Lucina stares at him. 

He’s more slender than he would have assumed, despite his demanding presence, with no nightclothes save a pair of linen shorts and a bandaged chest. He frowns at Lucina and pads towards him, reaching out to grab the scruff of his neck.

“The hell are you?” 

“I’m-” Lucina wriggles in his grasp and breaks away, letting his pinned target slink away. “I’m Marth.” 

The man looks Lucina up and down, folding his arms over his narrow chest. Lucina can see muscle, and his eyes drop to the man’s taut, defined stomach. 

“Marth.”

“Yeah.”

“You’ve got some blood on your shirt.” 

Lucina looks down, and as he does, the other man knees him in the stomach.

Lucina buckles, collapsing to the floor.

“Holy Naga,” the man shakes his head. “Do you know what time it is? Go the hell to sleep. All of you.”

There are murmurs of accord and an embarrassed hush falls over the bunkroom. There are creaks of wood and cots as everyone settles back in. 

Lucina clutches his stomach and fights off an urge to throw up.

The man who had kneed him kneels in front of him , resting his arms on his legs. He sighs and holds out a hand for Lucina to grasp and hauls him to his feet. 

-

Lucina sleeps in the hallway, next to the baths. She wakes up periodically as people pass, and blearily watches them come and go. There’s no sense of time, here, nothing concrete except the passing of footsteps and shifting shadows and the thick, oppressive air. She curls up in a corner and lays her head on her folded arms and tries to sleep.

It’s not the worst place she’s slept. 

Her head pulses and her cheek stings and she’d probably be sporting a bruise in the morning, whenever that comes. Maybe it’s okay. Maybe she established that she won’t take anyone’s shit. Or, more likely, she established that she’s a weirdo loner who picks fights. 

She rolls over.

If nothing else, she’s alone for a long enough period of time to be Lucina. She runs her hands through her hair and massages her scalp before resting against the wall. Morning comes slowly.

-

“You did WHAT?!” Basilio shouts.

“They started it!” Lucina protests, throwing his hands up. “I was just trying to sleep!” 

Basilio frowns at him. “I don’t know how it goes wherever you’re from, Marth, but around here you can’t just throw punches at the first sign of trouble. There are laws here. Rules.” 

Lucina stares up at him. 

The morning is cool and sunny, with snow flurrying around the entrance to the dormitories. Lucina had been summoned as soon as Basilio had arrived and heard about the previous night’s scuffle. 

Basilio exhales. “I know that you’re new here, and you - “ 

The conversation pauses while one of the other men cuts between them, entering the building.

“Okay, is he gone?” Basilio asks.

Lucina frowns and nods.

Basilio laughs uproariously. “Oh, boy, I hope you really gave them a walloping.”

“Wait, but-”

“Yes, yes, officially there is no fighting in the dormitories, but - well, boys will be boys.” Basilio laughs again and slaps Lucina on the back, hard enough to make him jolt forward and cough. “I’ll see about getting you your own room,” Basilio continues, patting Lucina’s shoulder. “Can’t have you getting beat up every night, now, can I? Save it for the arena.”

Lucina smiles weakly. The cool air feels marvelous on his bruised cheek. “Basilio, sir?”

“Hm? Just Basilio is fine, lad.” 

“Some guys made a comment last night, about me being your new pet. What did they mean?”

Basilio frowns and folds his arms over his chest. “To be honest, some people are less than happy that I’m entering you into the arena fights,” he admits. “Last year a friend of mine, Flavia, took the Khanship in the champion battle, and...well, let’s say she and I are known to have a rivalry of sorts.”

“Do you really want me to win the champion battle for you?”

Basilio grins and pats Lucina again. “Just focus on what’s in front of you, boy. Let me worry about all that.” 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't look at how long its been since the last update i don't know either lmao
> 
> cw for some Fantasy Racism in this chapter, will update tags as needed

Lucina stands with the other boys, most of them grumbling and weary from uncomfortable sleep or lack thereof. They stand in a line, somewhere in the bowels of the arena, surrounded by black curtains, piles of wood, props, dummies, metal contraptions whose purpose Lucina could only guess at.

He rubs his face. It still hurts, even though he scrubbed away the crust of dried blood from the fight the night before. He can see the other boys shooting sideways glances, murmuring amongst themselves until a booming voice cuts through the morning stillness.

“Enough! Quiet, the lot of you.” 

Most of the boys stand at attention - like soldiers, almost. With straight backs and stiff posture, Lucina realizes how much smaller he is than the other boys - shorter, slimmer, just skin and bones. Some of the others are walls of solid muscle, tense and taut like coiled springs ready to explode outwards. 

“Eyes forward, boy,” Basilio barks.

Lucina looks up and tries his best to stand up straight. His spine hurts from sleeping on the hard ground, and it’s still hard to unlearn the hunched-over posture that had served him well to hide in crowds and thickets.

“Sparring until lunch,” Basilio reads off. “Lunch at noon, free time, four-mile jog at two, combat drills till dinner, and then you’re free to go. Everyone understand?”

“Yessir!” comes a chorus. 

Basilio frowns. “You there, Marth. Come here.”

Lucina purses his lips and bows his head as he steps forward, sidling between the others as they pair off and disappear into the tangled infrastructure of the arena. 

“Kris, you too. I want you to show our new recruit around the place.” 

There’s a groan and one of the older boys steps forth, his irritation plain on his face. He scowls at Lucina and roughly shoulders past him. 

Lucina recognizes him immediately - the boy from the night before, the muscular boy with slick black hair and a narrow face. In the light of morning, his eyes are a piercing reddish brown, his face lightly dusted with barely perceptible freckles. 

Kris is better dressed this morning, wearing layers of cotton, linen, and a thin leather jerkin. His bootfalls are heavy and Lucina winces thinking about getting kicked again. 

Lucina swallows heavily. The strength of his grip on the back of Lucina’s neck isn’t something that’s easily forgotten.

Basilio claps the boy on the shoulder. “Marth, this is Kris. He’ll be your...let’s call him your chaperone for the time being, hm?” He laughs, and laughs more when Kris scowls. “He’s a good fighter - one of the best, if I’m permitted to speak on his behalf. Strong as an ox and twice as mean.” Basilio grins. 

Lucina nods. “Nice to meet you, Kri-” 

Kris bats Lucina’s hand away before he can even extend it. 

“Let’s get this over with,” he grumbles. 

Lucina struggles to keep pace with him, his long stride guiding them quickly through the underbelly of the arena. Lucina can see all sorts of things he can’t even guess the purpose of - metal pipes and water valves and wooden strats and stone structures, locked doors disappearing into the depths of the facility. 

“This is the training entrance,” Kris gestures. “It’s generally referred to as ‘backstage’ by the fighters.” 

Not much of an explanation, Lucina notes. 

Kris leads them around a corner and down a narrow stone hallway that terminates in bright daylight. He sticks a thumb towards the hallway. “That’s the entrance to the arena proper. It’s still being set up in the training configuration right now, so we’ll head out there later.” Kris smiles, but it’s not exactly a friendly gesture. “That’s where I’ll be kicking your ass.” 

Lucina laughs politely and winces when Kris turns away. 

“These are the fighter barracks,” Kris continues the tour, gesturing. A series of rooms with low stone ceilings and bare floors, with benches set into the walls, all lit by torchlight. Some light filters in through high, barred windows.

“Looks like a prison.” 

“They say it’s to keep people from smuggling in, er...contraband weapons and armor. Keep things fair, right?” 

“Yeah...ok, sure,” Lucina shrugs, unsure what exactly qualifies as “contraband” - as far as he’s concerned, it’s all stuff used for killing, right? 

Nausea creeps into his stomach as he trails behind Kris, listening to him gesture to different parts of the arena. It hadn’t quite seemed real, back when Basilio had been wining and dining him with food and ale and the promise of a warm bed. But now, as they crested the top of a set of stone stairs and onto the arena concourse, Lucina’s stomach roils.

The Ferox Arena splays below them, a flat oval encircled by rows and rows of grandstands. The stands are almost entirely empty now, save a few stray pedestrians milling around, climbing the stairs or sitting down to watch the training fighters. 

On the arena floor, fighters clash against each other with heavy weapons. Weapons that clash and clang with all the fervor of real steel, real sparring. Lucina frowns. 

“Keep up, kid,” Kris says. He points to the concourse. “There’ll be food vendors and the like here on fight nights, but trust me - the last thing you want to do is fight on a full stomach. Unless you like to slip on your own vomit.”

“Ugh,” Lucina grimaces. “Gross.” 

“Yeah, welcome to the arena,” Kris laughs. 

“Um, K...Kris?” Lucina asks nervously, struggling to keep up. “Are they training with real weapons?” 

“Hm?” Kris frowns. “I mean, they’re dull blades, so…” He furrows his brow. “You HAVE fought before, right?” 

“Yeah, but…” Lucina winces. “I kind of thought it’d be like...you know. Playfighting.” 

“Oh…” Kris nods in understanding. “Right, you’re not from around here. Guess you’re used to the crazy stuff they do down there in the desert, huh?” 

Lucina stares at the stone walkway beneath his boots. Plegia had bloodsports, sure. But he had never participated in, never even seen one. 

“I mean, sure, there’s the occasional broken bone, the odd maiming here and there, but for the most part it’s safe. What you really have to watch out for,” Kris says, almost relishing the words, “is the Grand Tournament. That’s real blood and real steel. That’s why it’s outsiders only. But any Feroxi can fight in the shows.” 

With this last, he points to himself - proud of his heritage. 

Lucina wonders what that’s like. To not cover every inch of yourself, to hide your blood and your brands. He stares at some point in space between his eyes and the sparring in the arena below.

“Hey, kid.” Kris’ voice breaks Lucina’s stupor. “Kid, are you listening to me?”

“Huh? Y...yeah,” Lucina nods. 

“Something wrong with your eyes?” Kris squints, leaning closer. 

Lucina backs away, shaking his bangs into his eyes. “N, no, I just...they’re different colors I guess. Um. There’s a word for it.”

“Heterochromia,” comes a voice. A mage passes by, her nose buried in a book. “Shouldn’t the two of you be training?” 

“Giving the greenhorn a tour,” Kris folds his arms over his chest. “Marth, this is one of the engineering mages that runs the facility.”

“Charmed,” the mage says. She frowns. “Marth, huh.”

“You know us,” Kris grins. “No one uses their real names.”

Lucina glances at him inquisitively.

“Anyways, the mages, aside from being rather gorgeous-” Kris says, trying to lift the mage’s hand to his lips. She pulls away and scowls - “are in charge of most of the special effects. They run the platforms, the waterworks, the pyrotechnics, the whole deal. They’re the ones who make the whole show what it is. Pretty sure they even enchant the squibs.”

Kris grins at the mage as she walks away, adjusting her hat. 

“Most of them have fancy educations and all that, so they tend not to associate with us brutish performers,” he laughs. “Come on, let's get down on the field.”

-

It’s not quite the din of a battlefield, but it’s close. The clang of steel against steel, scraping blades against metal, the grunts and pained cries of fighters as blunt weapons smack into flesh and limbs, sickening thuds as bodies are toppled to the ground. Kris grins, gazing out over the carnage with something resembling pride. 

Soldiers, they were not. 

Lucina realizes right away why Basilio had chosen her. 

Arenafighters play  _ dirty _ . 

They yank and tug at each other, pulling hair and prodding eyes and kneeing stomachs, using blades like blunt clubs to smash each other into submission. It’s a free-for-all, in almost every sense of the word. Boys and girls, men and women alike crashing against each other like waves of flesh and steel, each more unhinged and brutal than the last. Lucina watches a woman swipe a leg out to drop a man before folding him into a headlock, making him drop his sword.

Lucina and Kris stand at the edge of the arena, by carts of weapons and armor that had been dragged out from backstage. Most of the good weapons had been taken - what was left was dented, rusting, cheap.

“Y’know,” Kris picks up a sword and looks down its length. “They say in Ylisse they actually have  _ rules _ for this shit.” He gives it a few swings, testing the weight. “I think we’re the nice midpoint between the formal bullshit the nobles do in Ylisse and the straight-up-barbarism of the Plegians.”

“Stop saying that,” Lucina frowns.

“What?” Kris puts the sword down. 

“Calling us things like that. Barbarians. Dogs.” 

“Okay,” Kris picks a spear up off a rack. “Here’s the deal. You land a blow on me, I’ll stop calling you names.” 

Lucina nods. “Fine.”

“Here, I’ll make it easy,” Kris tugs off his leather jerkin and leaves it in a pile. He pores over some of the carts of armor - dented pauldrons and gauntlets and vambraces with creaking joints. He pulls out a leather cuirass and looks it over.

“This is a squib jacket. You ever heard of this?” 

Lucina shakes his head.

Kris explains as he pulls it on. “It’s what you’ll wear during the fights - makes it look good when you score a hit, makes it obvious when a fighter is downed.” He opens the cuirass and shows Lucina the lining. “It’s got pressurized packs that the mages whip up - red dye, mostly, but it looks like the real thing.” He purses his lips and reconsiders. “No, it looks better than the real thing - fountains of red. Enough to see a landed blow even from the concourse.” 

Lucina nods.

“We’ll know if you hit me,” Kris grins and buttons the jacket up before gesturing to the weapons rack. “Go ahead, pick your poison. I guarantee it doesn’t matter what you choose.”

Lucina pores over the wooden rack, poking and prodding the different weapons at his disposal. Rapiers, armorslayers, curved blades from Chon’sin, heavy steel blades and slim silver swords. 

“And if you win?” Lucina asks, picking up a steel sword. He runs a finger along the blade, surprised to find it smooth and dull. 

“That sword you had back in the dorms looks pretty nice,” Kris says, showing teeth. “What say I lay claim?” 

“No,” Lucina shakes his head, testing the weight of his chosen weapon. “No, I...I can’t. Anything else.” 

“Better not lose, then,” Kris says. He lunges forward, thrusting the spear at Lucina’s stomach. It hits him and he stumbles back, falling to the ground with a muffled  _ oof _ . 

The point of the spear was dull, the force blunt rather than a stab, but it was enough to send Lucina’s heart into overdrive. 

He picks up his sword and uses it to lever himself out of the dirt and slam his shoulder into Kris. Kris grunts in surprise and lifts his lance to catch Lucina’s sword before it hits. The two slam their weapons together. Their blades lock and Lucina leans forward, baring his teeth. 

“Woah, down, doggy,” Kris teases. “Easy there, boy!” 

Lucina grunts and whips a leg out, landing a boot squarely in Kris’ stomach. 

It barely even winds him. 

Lucina is just too small, too weak against the solid wall of muscle and the flashing silver of Kris’ weapon. Kris’ lance glances off Lucina’s sword, each blow closer and closer to bending back and colliding with Lucina’s body. Lucina can barely hold off the onslaught, crying out and stumbling backwards as he’s hit, hit, hit, hit, hit- 

He can’t win.

He knows he can’t win. Strength against strength alone, he is no match for Kris. 

Lucina remembers the scuffle in the market. He winces as a blow resonates through his sword and into the bones of his arm. 

Lucina remembers the woman putting the man in a headlock. He drops to his back as Kris’ lance beats him down into the dirt. 

You don’t win these fights with strength. There’s always someone stronger. 

There’s always someone smarter, too, but this meathead probably didn’t spend nineteen odd years living through hell. 

Lucina swings his sword with all his might, knocking Kris’ lance back just enough for Lucina to scoot forward and thrust his leg up, landing squarely between Kris’ legs. 

Kris grunts and topples backwards, almost dropping his lance as he struggles to regain his balance. 

Lucina crawls forwards, staying low and slashing at Kris’ ankles, trying to keep him off-balance long enough for Lucina to scramble to his feet. He wipes his mouth and regrips the hilt of his sword, holding it out defensively. 

“You filthy little rat,” Kris grits his teeth. “You think you can win like that?” 

“You’re right,” Lucina sighs, standing up straighter. He lets his sword droop. “I...I can’t beat you. You’re too strong.” 

“Good dog,” Kris grins, lowering his lance. “So you forfeit?” 

Lucina swallows and nods. 

“Ha! Easy,” Kris laughs, planting his lance in the dirt. “Trust me, you need to do more than kick a man in the groin to win.” He gestures at the field. “Besides, half of the men are wearing c-”

Lucina looks up at Kris, the tip of his sword thrust into his cuirass. 

Kris stares at him, frozen. 

The sword isn’t sharp enough to pierce skin, but it can bruise, and more importantly - it can trigger a squib. The sword rips through Kris’ cuirass and hits one of the pressurized packs. Blood erupts out of Kris’ chest, spraying Lucina’s face and painting her sword with red. 

The squib’s burst is enough to knock Kris back, sending the startled fighter to land on his tailbone with a curse. Fake blood pools underneath him. 

Lucina lowers his sword and wipes the blood from his face, breathing a sigh of relief. 

“You cheated,” Kris scowled. 

“You said I had to land a blow,” Lucina plants his sword in the dirt and rests against it, breathing hard. “I did.”

“You forfeited,” anger creases Kris’ brow. “You filthy little - “

“Ah-” Lucina holds a hand up. “I won. It wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t square, but...what did you say?” He grins. “Rules? Rules are for Ylisseans.” 

He holds a bloodstained hand out, extending it for Kris to take. 

Kris stares at the hand for a moment before, silent and analyzing. A grin spreads across his lips and he grasps Lucina's hand. 

-

“This isn’t real, right?!” Olivia squeals, holding up Lucina’s bloodied tunic. 

Lucina sits on a bench in the back of the theater, where she had been cleaned up on her first night in Regna Ferox. Her hair is wet and clean, clinging to her face and dripping onto the towel draped over her shoulders. She’s only wearing underwear, leaving bits of exposed skin turned dark brown and purple by bruises and welts. 

“Of course not!” Basilio says, shaking his head. “It’s stage blood, you know it is.” 

“I don’t know!” Olivia frowns, shaking her head. “I don’t know what you and your boys get up to. I wouldn’t put it past any of you to get real blood all over you.”

“Real blood is much harder to get out of a tunic,” Basilio laughs, sitting at Lucina’s side. His weight creaks and bows the bench. 

Lucina wraps her hands tighter around her ceramic mug. Wisps of steam curl up from her tea. 

“How was your first taste of a match, boy?” Basilio asks. “Kris’ll think twice before underestimating you again, I bet.” 

“It was…”

Lucina isn’t quite sure how to respond. Natural? It did feel natural. It’s not an instinct that is easily let go - the fight-or-flight rush, the overdrive in her brain and her heart, adrenaline coursing through her veins.

Fake blood is colder, thinner. Tastes different. 

“I’m...I’m excited to see more,” Lucina says nervously. “The mages seem interesting.”

“Oh, the engineers? They’re a strange bunch, that’s for sure,” Basilio laughs and folds his arms over his chest. “Ah, before I forget!”

He fumbles around in his pockets, digging for something - a brass key that he deposits into Lucina’s open hand. 

“Your room key. You’ll be staying with the theater company for the time being, just to avoid any more...er, incidents like last night. Your room is on the third floor.” 

“You’ll be staying with us!” Olivia’s friendly voice calls out as she rounds a corner, brushing powdered detergent off her dress. “I hope that means you’ll be doing your own laundry, at some point.”

“Oh, cut the boy some slack,” Basilio pats Lucina’s head before standing up. “Pretty sure I couldn’t do laundry at his age.” 

“You STILL can’t do laundry,” Olivia teases, gently swatting his arm. “Now out, let him get some rest.” 

“Oh, Basilio?” Lucina stands up and calls after him. “That fighter, Kris?”

“Hm?” Basilio stops at the door. 

“Do you know his real name?” 

Basilio furrows his brow. “Now why would you want to know a thing like that, Marth?” 

Lucina stares at the floor. “I guess he’s the closest thing I have to a friend right now. At least...in the arena. All the other boys hate my guts.” 

“So you handed his ass to him, and now he’s friends with you?” 

Lucina shrugs. “I...I guess so.”

“Ha!” Basilio cracks a smile. “That’s just like him. He’s signed on under the name Kris, but his real name...it’s something like that. K...K something. Kellam…? No.” He snaps his finger and looks up. “That’s right. His name’s Kjelle.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you want to say hi, you can follow me at @cowboy_sneep on twitter and @lucisevofficial on tumblr!


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